The Horror
The first major part of my assignment is complete, but only twenty nine pages later. (I managed to turn it at the last possible minute, just barely). Never have I written anything so long in my entire life, never have I come so close to cursing out my computer printer to verbal oblivion, or been so close to moving deep into the woods to spend the rest of my word-wearied-life living at the top of large fir tree with my imaginary animal-friend Bob, the blue budgie. Like Mr. Kurtz in Conrad's story, I came this close to the edge and saw "the horror--the horror."
Of course, it's not yet over, I still have the second part of the assignment to write. After a few days of Thanksgiving holiday stuffing myself with turkey, I'm hoping that I've replenished the mental and physical capacity to handle it. Tomorrow will be a full day of work, from early morning to late night (possibly early morning again). I'm hoping the second part will come easy, but I'm trying not to be delusional. Blog entries may be sparse again for next couple of weeks.
Life explorations of a middle-aged man searching through the meanings and expectations of what could have been and what still might be.
Saturday, November 29, 2003
Monday, November 24, 2003
The 8-Ball Blues
No, I haven't disappeared; I've been really busy, and okay, I'll admit it, a little depressed. The main reason for the blues, but not the only one, is that I've missed some real important due dates for the work that is currently on-going. And, as these things somehow always tend to coalesce into a personal fiasco, much like a tornado that spins everything into a blustery chaos, I've been taking the edge off these blues by watching television--precisely the absolute wrong thing to do with work pressing. As I say, a fiasco. Still, there's hope; I'll admit that too.
This certainly has been an interesting first term. While I'm usually not one to make predictions, a lesson I learned early on from the magic eight ball (After all, there's a reason why it's an eight ball and not, say, an eleven), I think the next term will go much more smoothly. I continue to hope so anyway.
No, I haven't disappeared; I've been really busy, and okay, I'll admit it, a little depressed. The main reason for the blues, but not the only one, is that I've missed some real important due dates for the work that is currently on-going. And, as these things somehow always tend to coalesce into a personal fiasco, much like a tornado that spins everything into a blustery chaos, I've been taking the edge off these blues by watching television--precisely the absolute wrong thing to do with work pressing. As I say, a fiasco. Still, there's hope; I'll admit that too.
This certainly has been an interesting first term. While I'm usually not one to make predictions, a lesson I learned early on from the magic eight ball (After all, there's a reason why it's an eight ball and not, say, an eleven), I think the next term will go much more smoothly. I continue to hope so anyway.
Friday, November 21, 2003
Mental machinery
None of the gears in my brain appear to be willingly turning for me at the moment, and, thus, it is a challenge to think straight for more than few minutes at a time. Of course, I've no-one to blame for this condition except myself. You see, I only had two hours sleep last night because I absolutely had to have all of the ENG104 essays that have been oppresses my spirit for the past two weeks graded by this morning--which, fortunately, they were all graded by 5:00 a.m. However, I was only able to nap for two hours before going to that same class to hand them out.
Recently, I spoke with a friend, someone who has been through the grad. school experience, who told me that thing that you need to know is this: "On your very first day of class, you're already four weeks behind." That sums up my experience these last eight weeks rather well. The instructor for ENG104, who is very sympathetic and treats me and the other T.A. as (pseudo) colleagues, says that the work never really lets up the whole time you're in grad. school; the trick is to not stress out too much about it, and to try and do all of the work as it comes to you.
Since grading essays no longer burdens me, I can now focus my attention on the seminar paper that I need to have written by this Wednesday. So, it's back to the mind factory to browbeat masses of my brain cell into producing more thought from increasingly worn out mental machinery. C'est la vie!
None of the gears in my brain appear to be willingly turning for me at the moment, and, thus, it is a challenge to think straight for more than few minutes at a time. Of course, I've no-one to blame for this condition except myself. You see, I only had two hours sleep last night because I absolutely had to have all of the ENG104 essays that have been oppresses my spirit for the past two weeks graded by this morning--which, fortunately, they were all graded by 5:00 a.m. However, I was only able to nap for two hours before going to that same class to hand them out.
Recently, I spoke with a friend, someone who has been through the grad. school experience, who told me that thing that you need to know is this: "On your very first day of class, you're already four weeks behind." That sums up my experience these last eight weeks rather well. The instructor for ENG104, who is very sympathetic and treats me and the other T.A. as (pseudo) colleagues, says that the work never really lets up the whole time you're in grad. school; the trick is to not stress out too much about it, and to try and do all of the work as it comes to you.
Since grading essays no longer burdens me, I can now focus my attention on the seminar paper that I need to have written by this Wednesday. So, it's back to the mind factory to browbeat masses of my brain cell into producing more thought from increasingly worn out mental machinery. C'est la vie!
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Scholar Squalor
Alas, the work continues, and like the famous Frost poem, "I've miles to go before I sleep." Fortunately, one of the things that is helping me get a handle on the work is my discovery of the laptop loan program operated by the University's library. As a result of easier computing, Zhaf and his Cellar has a little more portability. Now, I can write and read from the comfort of my best study spot -- my own couch.
My main project continues to be the seminar paper that wil will be due in a couple scant weeks. I've not started writing it, but it is becoming clearer as a result of the research that I've been doing. Essentially, I'm trying to combine Mikhail Bakhtin's perspective of narrative discourse on a Tim O'Brien short story in his work "The Things They Carried." At this point, a reference to the Simpson's might be instructive.
Groundskeeper Willy: Hie ye hence from me heath!
Bart: Huh?
Groundskeeper Willy: What a'matter! Can't you understand English?
Like Bart, I'm still struggling to understand some of the jargon and terminology that is often used in academic writing. Even though it appears to be English, I begin to have my doubts. When Derrida writes about the "Heidegerrean destruction of meta-physics, of onto-theology, of the determination of Being as presence," I feel as if my head will explode. When De Man, trying to employ and Archie Bunker analogy (really, no kidding) writes, "it is a de-bunker rather than a 'Bunker,' and a de-bunker of the arche (or orgin), an archie Debunker such as Nietzche or Jaques Derrida for instance, who asks the question 'What is the Difference'," I feel as if I have completely slipped off the edge of the Earth and am spinning through a cold and inky space towards the twisting red eye of Jupiter.
Alas, the work continues, and like the famous Frost poem, "I've miles to go before I sleep." Fortunately, one of the things that is helping me get a handle on the work is my discovery of the laptop loan program operated by the University's library. As a result of easier computing, Zhaf and his Cellar has a little more portability. Now, I can write and read from the comfort of my best study spot -- my own couch.
My main project continues to be the seminar paper that wil will be due in a couple scant weeks. I've not started writing it, but it is becoming clearer as a result of the research that I've been doing. Essentially, I'm trying to combine Mikhail Bakhtin's perspective of narrative discourse on a Tim O'Brien short story in his work "The Things They Carried." At this point, a reference to the Simpson's might be instructive.
Groundskeeper Willy: Hie ye hence from me heath!
Bart: Huh?
Groundskeeper Willy: What a'matter! Can't you understand English?
Like Bart, I'm still struggling to understand some of the jargon and terminology that is often used in academic writing. Even though it appears to be English, I begin to have my doubts. When Derrida writes about the "Heidegerrean destruction of meta-physics, of onto-theology, of the determination of Being as presence," I feel as if my head will explode. When De Man, trying to employ and Archie Bunker analogy (really, no kidding) writes, "it is a de-bunker rather than a 'Bunker,' and a de-bunker of the arche (or orgin), an archie Debunker such as Nietzche or Jaques Derrida for instance, who asks the question 'What is the Difference'," I feel as if I have completely slipped off the edge of the Earth and am spinning through a cold and inky space towards the twisting red eye of Jupiter.
Saturday, November 15, 2003
The Burning Monster
This is the rare Saturday blog, partly inspired by helpless frustration that my homework is not progressing more quickly than I thought, complemented with a little burnout on the side. It's been difficult to focus properly on the reading I need to focus on. Combine that with the feathered darkness of isolation brought about as a result of ceaseless graduate study.
My mind leaps at any opportunity to escape from the topic at hand, and the corresponding icy absence of concentration leaks down my spine and burns quietly in my back; therefore, it's hard to sit still because the mild pain sitting there laughingly pushes me against the weak hope that I'll stay and work in my office, rather than melt willingly into the cold bathing blue gaze of the television at home.
Despite my cherished belief that this work will get done by Monday morning, I feel a rising fear and anxiety that it will not be completed by then, or by the following day either. This is my monster, a Grendel to my Beowulf, and I fear that, unlike the Northern King, I'll not be able to defeat it. How quickly has yesterday's small triumph of having a working car already been evaporated.
This is the rare Saturday blog, partly inspired by helpless frustration that my homework is not progressing more quickly than I thought, complemented with a little burnout on the side. It's been difficult to focus properly on the reading I need to focus on. Combine that with the feathered darkness of isolation brought about as a result of ceaseless graduate study.
My mind leaps at any opportunity to escape from the topic at hand, and the corresponding icy absence of concentration leaks down my spine and burns quietly in my back; therefore, it's hard to sit still because the mild pain sitting there laughingly pushes me against the weak hope that I'll stay and work in my office, rather than melt willingly into the cold bathing blue gaze of the television at home.
Despite my cherished belief that this work will get done by Monday morning, I feel a rising fear and anxiety that it will not be completed by then, or by the following day either. This is my monster, a Grendel to my Beowulf, and I fear that, unlike the Northern King, I'll not be able to defeat it. How quickly has yesterday's small triumph of having a working car already been evaporated.
Friday, November 14, 2003
Donut Diner
Finally, after gingerly crawling around town in my car, afraid it might expire at some inopportune time or place, I had my car looked at by a professional. The problem was -- happily -- an easy fix that they decided not to charge me for: that's right, free! Therefore, I figured that I should have my transmission tuned up at their business when winter break arrives, and I've a break from the piling work. The relief knowing that my car will not spontaneously kick the proverbial bucket has been positively immeasurable.
Yet, the transmission people needed a lot of time to look at my car and diagnose the problem. Therefore, I decided that I would walk the couple of blocks through the afternoon city to a small donut and coffee shop, and like a worried father, fret over the car while I did homework. The shop itself really is unassuming. The outside of it is dingy and grey, the inside is not much better with formica tables and harsh flourescent lights. However, I quickly discovered that the shop was a favorite hangout for people over the age of fifty. Many of the customers who came in seemed to know everything about the people behind the counter, and spent at least five minutes talking with them before they ordered anything. The analogy that seemed to fit was that this place is a teenage burger joint for retired, or near-retired, people. I felt extremely out of place, as the other patrons took turns taking silent note of me and what I was doing. Photographs taped to the wall near my table portrayed a group of the same people chatting it up at the very table I was occupying. Good Lord, I thought, I'm an invader.
The only other time I had this sort of feeling was, while on a brief vacation in New York City, a friend of mine and I decided to get hamburgers at 2:00 a.m. We figured that a particular Lebanese restaurant was our best bet. The shocked stares we got the moment we walked in was not unlike the hush that falls over a saloon when either the Sheriff or Bad Guys kick their way through the swinging doors in a Hollywood western. Eating there was probably not the best decision we ever made, but the experience was something we are not likely to forget anytime soon. Similarly, while I'm not sure I go back this dilapidated donut hovel, the feeling that I've somehow discovered the hidden hangout for the over fifty crowd is likely to leave an impression for at least few weeks.
Finally, after gingerly crawling around town in my car, afraid it might expire at some inopportune time or place, I had my car looked at by a professional. The problem was -- happily -- an easy fix that they decided not to charge me for: that's right, free! Therefore, I figured that I should have my transmission tuned up at their business when winter break arrives, and I've a break from the piling work. The relief knowing that my car will not spontaneously kick the proverbial bucket has been positively immeasurable.
Yet, the transmission people needed a lot of time to look at my car and diagnose the problem. Therefore, I decided that I would walk the couple of blocks through the afternoon city to a small donut and coffee shop, and like a worried father, fret over the car while I did homework. The shop itself really is unassuming. The outside of it is dingy and grey, the inside is not much better with formica tables and harsh flourescent lights. However, I quickly discovered that the shop was a favorite hangout for people over the age of fifty. Many of the customers who came in seemed to know everything about the people behind the counter, and spent at least five minutes talking with them before they ordered anything. The analogy that seemed to fit was that this place is a teenage burger joint for retired, or near-retired, people. I felt extremely out of place, as the other patrons took turns taking silent note of me and what I was doing. Photographs taped to the wall near my table portrayed a group of the same people chatting it up at the very table I was occupying. Good Lord, I thought, I'm an invader.
The only other time I had this sort of feeling was, while on a brief vacation in New York City, a friend of mine and I decided to get hamburgers at 2:00 a.m. We figured that a particular Lebanese restaurant was our best bet. The shocked stares we got the moment we walked in was not unlike the hush that falls over a saloon when either the Sheriff or Bad Guys kick their way through the swinging doors in a Hollywood western. Eating there was probably not the best decision we ever made, but the experience was something we are not likely to forget anytime soon. Similarly, while I'm not sure I go back this dilapidated donut hovel, the feeling that I've somehow discovered the hidden hangout for the over fifty crowd is likely to leave an impression for at least few weeks.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
Ned and hubcaps
Last night, after a detour to the grocery store to restock my perpetually empty fridge with food, I pulled into my apartment's parking lot to find that someone had rather ungraciously parked in my assigned space, space number five. Parking has always been an issue with me, especially considering that spaces are limited and that, while I know I'm burning up the world's limited supply of dinosaurs and fossilized plants, I really need a car to get around. This intruder in my space irked me. The irritation was multiplied by the fact that empty visitor spaces are available just a couple hundred yards away. So, being a nice guy, I left a short note under the interloper's windshield saying: "Please do not park here as it is my assigned space. Thank you."
However, after thinking about it, I realized that wasn't the note I really wanted to write. Not being practiced with confrontation, I initially figured that being brief would communicate my desire with as little chance possible of the stranger getting inordinately upset. (I make it policy not to upset strangers as you never know who is itching to return their cramped cell at the state bighouse.) The note I wanted to write is as follows:
---
Dear Sir or Madam,
I understand how difficult parking can be here in this lot, especially as space is limited. No-one understands the difficulty of parking a vehicle relatively close to where you need to do business, attend school, or just visit others more than I. It simply is not fair to decent law abiding car owners not to have safe space to leave their vehicle. If I were mayor, it would be mandatory for the city to have large parking garages built every five blocks, radiating from the city center.
However, that understood, if you ever park here again -- so help me, I'll train that dirty drowned river-rat-looking nutria [Ned from the earlier blog entry] to crawl out of that diseased infested mud pile they call a creek and pee all over your hubcaps.
Thank you for your kind attention to this matter.
Last night, after a detour to the grocery store to restock my perpetually empty fridge with food, I pulled into my apartment's parking lot to find that someone had rather ungraciously parked in my assigned space, space number five. Parking has always been an issue with me, especially considering that spaces are limited and that, while I know I'm burning up the world's limited supply of dinosaurs and fossilized plants, I really need a car to get around. This intruder in my space irked me. The irritation was multiplied by the fact that empty visitor spaces are available just a couple hundred yards away. So, being a nice guy, I left a short note under the interloper's windshield saying: "Please do not park here as it is my assigned space. Thank you."
However, after thinking about it, I realized that wasn't the note I really wanted to write. Not being practiced with confrontation, I initially figured that being brief would communicate my desire with as little chance possible of the stranger getting inordinately upset. (I make it policy not to upset strangers as you never know who is itching to return their cramped cell at the state bighouse.) The note I wanted to write is as follows:
---
Dear Sir or Madam,
I understand how difficult parking can be here in this lot, especially as space is limited. No-one understands the difficulty of parking a vehicle relatively close to where you need to do business, attend school, or just visit others more than I. It simply is not fair to decent law abiding car owners not to have safe space to leave their vehicle. If I were mayor, it would be mandatory for the city to have large parking garages built every five blocks, radiating from the city center.
However, that understood, if you ever park here again -- so help me, I'll train that dirty drowned river-rat-looking nutria [Ned from the earlier blog entry] to crawl out of that diseased infested mud pile they call a creek and pee all over your hubcaps.
Thank you for your kind attention to this matter.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Sand and stress
My grandiose plans to study hard over the weekend have evaporated like cool spring water in the Mojave desert. The result of not studying has been that I'm even further behind than I was and am now confronted with mounting stress, piled like numerous grains of sand in so many dunes of the aforementioned desert -- all of which brings me to my car.
Not being very mechanically inclined, I'll employ a metaphor that compares my car to an elderly person to describe the problem. Essentially, my car fractured a hip. While still able to move about, the car needs to see a professional, either today or tomorrow. I've been reluctantly forced to realize the car's eventual mortality. Although I can use the local bus system in emergencies, car trouble will severely restrict my mobility. Whether or not this episode is the beginning of the end remains to be seen; but once again, you'll note, the theme here is stress.
I figure I should take a lesson from Ned. Ned is the name that I've given to the nutria I mentioned a few entries back. Apparently, the acorn tree in front of my mailbox is his favorite dining establishment/night club. When I collect my mail at 11:00 p.m. or later, he seems to always be calm and unperturbed, even as I'm trying to dance away from him, lest he prove me wrong. Still his serenity, transcendental in a mystical way, gives me hope that I, too, will somehow find a way through this improbable work-mountain
My grandiose plans to study hard over the weekend have evaporated like cool spring water in the Mojave desert. The result of not studying has been that I'm even further behind than I was and am now confronted with mounting stress, piled like numerous grains of sand in so many dunes of the aforementioned desert -- all of which brings me to my car.
Not being very mechanically inclined, I'll employ a metaphor that compares my car to an elderly person to describe the problem. Essentially, my car fractured a hip. While still able to move about, the car needs to see a professional, either today or tomorrow. I've been reluctantly forced to realize the car's eventual mortality. Although I can use the local bus system in emergencies, car trouble will severely restrict my mobility. Whether or not this episode is the beginning of the end remains to be seen; but once again, you'll note, the theme here is stress.
I figure I should take a lesson from Ned. Ned is the name that I've given to the nutria I mentioned a few entries back. Apparently, the acorn tree in front of my mailbox is his favorite dining establishment/night club. When I collect my mail at 11:00 p.m. or later, he seems to always be calm and unperturbed, even as I'm trying to dance away from him, lest he prove me wrong. Still his serenity, transcendental in a mystical way, gives me hope that I, too, will somehow find a way through this improbable work-mountain
Friday, November 07, 2003
Study Blizzard
The illness has finally left, to which I can actually breathe a healthy sigh of relief. Perhaps the release from the stress of writing my graduate paper, a paper that nearly made me crazy and one which I would very much like to earn a decent grade for, might have given me the respite I needed to kick the lingering effects of my personal health disaster. Now I have the ability, once again, to arise from my couch, my usual place of study, without the room hysterically laughing at me as it spins in every direction at once.
So with my newly restored health I've resolved to study like I have never done before -- to study like the wind! Well, okay, not like the wind exactly, but certainly I need to figure out how to organize my time and study much more effectively; I constantly have to resist the ever-alluring pull of doing something else entertaining. My next project involves writing a 15-40 page annotated working bibliography for a 15 page seminar paper due in five weeks. Already, I am a little behind -- and with the essays I received today from the class I T.A. for, essays which need to be graded, I'm dangerously close to falling even further behind. Hence, one can see the obvious necessity of developing the steely resolve to avoid extraneous activities (like buying food, washing clothes, paying the bills.) So adopting the motto of a championship sled dog: it's time to mush.
The illness has finally left, to which I can actually breathe a healthy sigh of relief. Perhaps the release from the stress of writing my graduate paper, a paper that nearly made me crazy and one which I would very much like to earn a decent grade for, might have given me the respite I needed to kick the lingering effects of my personal health disaster. Now I have the ability, once again, to arise from my couch, my usual place of study, without the room hysterically laughing at me as it spins in every direction at once.
So with my newly restored health I've resolved to study like I have never done before -- to study like the wind! Well, okay, not like the wind exactly, but certainly I need to figure out how to organize my time and study much more effectively; I constantly have to resist the ever-alluring pull of doing something else entertaining. My next project involves writing a 15-40 page annotated working bibliography for a 15 page seminar paper due in five weeks. Already, I am a little behind -- and with the essays I received today from the class I T.A. for, essays which need to be graded, I'm dangerously close to falling even further behind. Hence, one can see the obvious necessity of developing the steely resolve to avoid extraneous activities (like buying food, washing clothes, paying the bills.) So adopting the motto of a championship sled dog: it's time to mush.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Illness and Discontent
Grappling with an illness, likely brought about by the stress of working on my paper, I've found it hard to motivate myself forward to fling myself towards even more study and more books. I've not worked quite this hard and had so little to show for it in the results department for some time. Frankly, when I hear someone talk about the deconstructive imperatives influencing the grand narratives of centered discourse, it's hard not to feel slightly demoralized. Okay, sure -- I do spend more time watching television than I should, but I'm an American, right? Television is practically an inalienable right. I've briefly spoken with an instructor about feeling like I'm somehow, not just in the wrong place, but in the completely wrong dimension. The reassurance I received was, of course, reassuring, but just a little. The instructor suggested that it may take a whole year before I feel like I have a strong grasp of the process. Good Lord, I hope not.
Grappling with an illness, likely brought about by the stress of working on my paper, I've found it hard to motivate myself forward to fling myself towards even more study and more books. I've not worked quite this hard and had so little to show for it in the results department for some time. Frankly, when I hear someone talk about the deconstructive imperatives influencing the grand narratives of centered discourse, it's hard not to feel slightly demoralized. Okay, sure -- I do spend more time watching television than I should, but I'm an American, right? Television is practically an inalienable right. I've briefly spoken with an instructor about feeling like I'm somehow, not just in the wrong place, but in the completely wrong dimension. The reassurance I received was, of course, reassuring, but just a little. The instructor suggested that it may take a whole year before I feel like I have a strong grasp of the process. Good Lord, I hope not.
Monday, November 03, 2003
Under the Hammer
As far as the English 104 class that I T.A. for, I've definitely settled into a routine: park my car, walk across the freezing cold campus for fifteen minutes to get to class, wonder when the squirrels will begin to hibernate, listen to the lecture, try to inspire small group discussions when appropriate, and check in with the instructor after class. It seems that the biggest challenge has been the grading; and as far as that is concerned, I'm getting a better handle on the types of things that the instructor expects. The only potential snag on the horizon are the upcoming essays that all the students should be diligently working on. (Hah!)
Of course, with my own experience as a guide, I know for a fact that 98% of the students will wait until the night before. I myself have a paper that is due tomorrow that, while I have done the research ahead of time, I haven't begun to write yet. I'll spend the better part of today and early tomorrow writing it, so there'll likely not be blog entries for a day or two. Even though I know better, and despite constantly hear the same advice from every English teacher I've ever met (including fellow grad. students), I should have started writing my paper a couple of weeks ago. Old habits are hard to break.
But, applying some perspective, I should say that it is not all that bad. I do revise my papers after drafting them, and I have actually done some free writing about my topic already. So, if trends continue, I'll eventually get to where I want to be, but let's hope that's not after I've already graduated.
As far as the English 104 class that I T.A. for, I've definitely settled into a routine: park my car, walk across the freezing cold campus for fifteen minutes to get to class, wonder when the squirrels will begin to hibernate, listen to the lecture, try to inspire small group discussions when appropriate, and check in with the instructor after class. It seems that the biggest challenge has been the grading; and as far as that is concerned, I'm getting a better handle on the types of things that the instructor expects. The only potential snag on the horizon are the upcoming essays that all the students should be diligently working on. (Hah!)
Of course, with my own experience as a guide, I know for a fact that 98% of the students will wait until the night before. I myself have a paper that is due tomorrow that, while I have done the research ahead of time, I haven't begun to write yet. I'll spend the better part of today and early tomorrow writing it, so there'll likely not be blog entries for a day or two. Even though I know better, and despite constantly hear the same advice from every English teacher I've ever met (including fellow grad. students), I should have started writing my paper a couple of weeks ago. Old habits are hard to break.
But, applying some perspective, I should say that it is not all that bad. I do revise my papers after drafting them, and I have actually done some free writing about my topic already. So, if trends continue, I'll eventually get to where I want to be, but let's hope that's not after I've already graduated.
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